


Impedimenta Part II

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [24]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They are so smart, your Padawans.  If you did anything right, it was that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impedimenta Part II

**Author's Note:**

> beta-beta-beta credit: Dogmatix, Norcumi, Laura, and Merry Amelie

Republic Date 5201: 3/12th

The Cathedral, Entrios

 

“No, Yuri,” Jaime Grierseer said, and gave Yuri Dravaco a pointed look for good measure. It was not the first time she’d given him that particular answer.

“You keep saying no to a vested relationship, but you won’t actually give us a chance,” Yuri protested.

Jaime decided that he was not being fair. Masculine pouting was a particular weakness of hers.

Yuri hissed in a delighted breath when she started stroking him with both hands. Jaime didn’t play fair, either.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she told him, smiling as he hardened in her grasp. “I don’t want a relationship with anyone. I’m a Zeltron through and through. I don’t plan on settling down until I hit my sixth decade, at least.”

Yuri blinked a few times, visibly gathering his wits, and then he waved his hand at her. “You _do_ want a relationship with me,” he said, and what saved him from an abrupt castration was that he did not attempt to use the Force.

“I _do_ want to have sex with you.” Jaime smirked. “That was a pathetic attempt.”

“Well, I am trying to maintain some sense of scruples,” Yuri admitted.

Jaime shook her head and refused to sigh. She was flattered that he wished to pursue her; it was the first interest he’d shown in interpersonal relationships since his Nacini had died. Still, he was aiming his long-term desires in the wrong direction. “Most men that I meet are content to have me in their beds. You don’t know how to take no for an answer, Dravaco.”

For a moment, his eyes darkened, and Jaime wondered if she’d stepped on a hornet’s nest without realizing it. Then his expression brightened. “Stubbornness serves me well, Grierseer.”

“I’m sure it does, but right now, it is annoying. Stop it, or I stop this,” Jaime said in a stern voice. “Besides, otherwise we need to start negotiating terms and safewords.”

Yuri raised both eyebrows. “Let’s do that anyway.”

Jaime grinned. There was a reason why she’d decided to spend her time with Dravaco.

When they were done, and the room was pungent, Yuri nudged her stomach with his elbow. “Would you at least let me attempt to convince you?” he asked.

Jaime was trying to figure out how they’d wound up in such a juxtaposed position. She was also irritated by the resumption of his annoying request for a relationship. She lifted her head, gave his feet a puzzled look, and then turned to glare at him. “You are persistent, Dravaco.”

Yuri smiled at her. “I’m a Jedi Master. It comes with the territory.”

Jaime flopped back down on the bed. It was too hot in the room, and the sheets were no longer comfortable after soaking up so much moisture. She lifted her leg and poked Yuri in the chest with her toes. “You may try,” she said, and then poked him again when she felt his excitement. “You’re not allowed to become an overemotional, whiny heap if your efforts fail. And do not mistake my willingness to make the attempt for ownership.”

“That’s all I was asking for,” Yuri said, a wealth of promise in his tone. He caught her foot and kissed her toes.

Jaime shrieked at the sensation and tried to kick him in the face.

They dressed when the need to find food overrode the desire to be alone and naked together. Jaime expected the commissary to be empty, and was surprised to find Tachi there, along with the Mind Healer Su’um-Va.

Jaime figured out the reason for their presence before Yuri did. “I didn’t realize the two of you were together!”

Siri grinned back; Su’um-Va just looked confused. “It’s the well-fucked look,” Jaime said to the Healer, whose eyes widened at her frank appraisal. “It gives the game away every time.”

“I told you it was obvious,” Tachi said, nudging Su’um-Va with her shoulder.

Jaime and Yuri sat down at their table at Tachi’s invitation, once they had collected food from the service line. It was a relief not to have to dine on ration bars during their break from training.

“I am surprised that you didn’t spend your leave elsewhere,” Su’um-Va said, while sipping at more of the bitter, vile tea the Healer twins preferred. Tachi seemed far more sensible, drowning her caff in cream and sweetener.

“The Cathedral is not such a bad place, when nobody is attacking you, poisoning your food, or sabotaging your belongings at all hours,” Yuri deigned to admit.

“The food is good, the lodgings are temperate, and the beds are not awful,” Tachi agreed.

“We’re the only ones who thought so,” Su’um-Va said. “Everyone else departed the moment leave was declared. My sister went to the Corellian Temple to oversee a Padawan Healer’s Trials, but will be returning on the fourteenth.”

“Zarin Har persuaded Abella to attend a conference with him, but we’re all convinced he has nefarious motives that involve furry sexcapades,” Siri added with a bright smile.

“Dearheart.” Su’um-Va sighed. “ _You_ are convinced that it’s his goal. The rest of us would prefer to wait until their relationship is fact before singing of it in public.”

“I would not be so sure about that,” Yuri confided. “Vos let it slip that our Bothan Healer has been quizzing him and others about Healer Abella’s relationship status.”

Jaime and Su’um-Va gave each other similar, commiserating looks. “I am not a gossip,” Yuri objected.

“Shoe fits,” Tachi said. “Don’t let them judge you. Most Jedi are horrible gossips because that’s the only way we can keep track of who’s doing what. We’re too busy, otherwise.”

Su’um-Va was shaking his head. “Master Yoda sets the worst example,” he muttered, which made Jaime swallow back a laugh.

When their meal was almost finished, Brek Fa’an strode into the commissary. She was still wrapped in the extreme cold-weather gear necessary for outdoor travel on Entrios. “Hello,” she greeted them. “Is it just us?”

“Just us,” Jaime confirmed, waving her over. Brek shook her head in polite refusal, instead walking straight towards the vidscreen at the rear of the commissary.

“I thought you all would want to see this.” Fa’an activated the unit and then flipped through the satellite feeds for the ’Net, settling on a news station boosted out from the Corellian system.

Tachi tilted her head. “Someone took a swoop bike joyride through Tyrena?”

“I’m sure the tourists were thrilled,” Yuri murmured, just as Jaime’s eyes were caught by the telltale sign of blaster fire.

“Not a joyride, then,” she said, amused. “Anyone we know?”

Fa’an pointed at the swoop in the lead. “That’s Kenobi’s Padawan, with Master Jinn’s Padawan riding behind him.”

Tachi burst out laughing. “Oh, man. Those two can’t go _anywhere!"_

“I take it all parties survived?” Su’um-Va asked, concern etching his features. “The timestamp on that footage is several hours old.”

“Oh, yes,” Fa’an nodded. “No serious injuries reported among the tourists or the Jedi involved, but there is a body count from the attacking side.”

“Where’s our erstwhile instructor, then?” Jaime asked, curious.

“The footage should be cycling through in another minute or two—there we go.” Fa’an stepped back from the screen as the footage reverted to earlier, poorer quality vid. Several swoops were firing on a group of three—one bike was hit immediately, guttering and flaming. Jaime watched as the boy on one swoop grabbed the juvenile Wookiee’s hand and swung her over to his bike just as another attacker tried to finish her off.

Kenobi shot into frame on another swoop and rammed the attacker who’d tried to kill the Wookiee. There was a scuffle, followed by an explosion that overpowered the vid recorder and turned the screen white. The screen reverted to a view of the commentators, who were discussing the footage with all the enthusiasm of sports fanatics.

“Our instructor is insane,” Jaime declared, when no one said anything.

“We knew _that_ ,” Tachi replied. “Seriously, he came out of the crèche that way.”

As if Fa’an’s airing of the news had been a signal, all of their comms buzzed and chimed at once. “I wonder who that could be,” Tachi muttered with a delighted chuckle as she pulled her comm out from beneath her shirt, baring a fair amount of skin in the process. Yuri grimaced and turned away in embarrassment, which made Jaime smirk at him. He was the silliest man.

She bent over her own comm, which was a texted message only. [Looking for most current news, gossip, and/or known locations for the Bando Gora.]

“Huh,” Tachi said, after reading her own copy of the message. “Wonder who they are.”

“The Bando Gora are one of the more ruthless cult groups known, active in the Inner Rim and possibly trying to make the jump to the Core Worlds,” Fa’an answered her. “Judicial has been trying to pin them down for years now, but with no success. The Jedi haven’t had any specific dealings with them since our last attempt to take down the cult ended with several deaths.”

“I remember that,” Yuri said, frowning. “I had just been Knighted when it happened. By all accounts, it was a disaster.”

“Are you typing that _verbatim?_ ” Fa’an was asking Tachi, eyes widening in disbelief.

Tachi looked up from her comm. “Uh, yeah?”

“Answer for me, too, then,” Jaime said. “I have heard nothing about the Bando Gora beyond what Fa’an just told us.”

“Just rumors about their recruiting efforts,” Yuri continued, when Tachi glanced over at him. “It is said that their version of a death stick has mind-controlling properties.”

“Not mind-control.” Su’um-Va shook his head. “The Corellian Temple analyzed them, last year, when some of our Knights encountered a fragment of the Bando Gora’s drug trade. Their sticks are laced with a mild hallucinogenic, a calming psychotropic, and a high-dose hypnotic that makes one prone to accepting others’ commands.”

“So it’s Force Suggestion in cigarra form,” Tachi summarized, her fingers flying over the keypad in a blur of motion.

Su’um-Va considered her description. “Essentially, yes.”

Jaime felt her stomach turn over. “I am suddenly rethinking every instance of Force persuasion I have ever attempted.”

“Good,” Fa’an said, with a sharp nod. “You _should_ rethink it, all the time. Giving strong Suggestions to other beings must always be given full consideration. It’s an easy power to misuse.”

Yuri’s eyes narrowed. “We’re all Jedi here, Fa’an. We know what our responsibilities are.”

“Do you?” Fa’an shut down the vid screen, which was replaying footage of the Padawans’ flight through Tyrena. “Sometimes I wonder if the Order remembers such things at all,” she said, and left the commissary.

“Er…what?” Tachi asked. While not eloquent, Jaime thought it a rather appropriate response to Fa’an’s sudden departure.

Yuri shrugged, unconcerned. “Judicial baggage. At the moment, I’m far more worried about this Bando Gora resurgence.”

Jaime decided to ignore his lack of tact. “Why in the worlds did this cult attack Kenobi, Jinn, and their students?”

Tachi grinned. “Honestly, I think it boils down to ‘because it’s them and they exist.’” She stood up from her chair and then bent over to give Su’um-Va an endearing kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to check on Fa’an. You guys decide if we should be placing bets on the Bando Gora’s continued survival.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Siri knocked on the doorframe for Brek Fa’an’s quarters, and was relieved when Fa’an invited her to enter without delay. She palmed the door and stepped inside, halting before she could trip over Fa’an’s discarded winter gear.

The Falleen Master was stretched out on her bunk, with several pillows crammed behind her to support her head and neck. There was a book in her hands—actual paper bound to a cloth-covered board, not a reader.

Fa’an raised an eyebrow at Siri’s wide-eyed stare. “Yes, a real book.”

“What’s it about?” Siri asked, curious.

“It is a romance novel,” Fa’an answered. “A classic, written fifteen hundred years ago, and thus worth owning in mimicry of its original bound form.”

Siri made a face. “Classic” often meant “awful and outdated.”

“I do not have the patience for romance, myself, but it is nice to read about others enjoying a proper courtship,” Fa’an said. “This one is quite good, if suffering from an overabundance of angst and sadness.”

“Oh.” Siri mirrored the Falleen’s quirked eyebrow. “Any smut?”

Fa’an’s face lit up in a brief grin. “Not nearly enough. What can I do for you, Tachi?”

“Well, I was actually wondering if there was anything I could do for you,” Siri replied, stepping over Fa’an’s coat and taking a seat on the room’s only chair. “You sounded pissed off back there.”

“I shouldn’t have let it bother me.” Fa’an sighed. “They are old frustrations.”

“Dravaco said it was Judicial baggage.”

Fa’an rolled her eyes. “Of course Dravaco would think so. He is right, in a sense, but he is also an asshole.”

Siri grinned. “I kinda got that impression, yeah.” Her smile faltered in the face of Fa’an’s continued melancholy. “Uhm…you can tell me I’m wrong here, but I also got the impression from last week that you don’t want to be a Shadow. At all.”

Fa’an let her open book rest face down over her breast. “You would be correct.”

“Then…well. You know, you could have left with the others. Why are you staying?” Siri asked, hoping she wasn’t taking Jedi prying a step too far.

Fa’an didn’t seem to mind the question. “I had a dream.”

Tachi leaned back in her seat. “What is it with Jedi Masters and making that sentence sound like a portent of doom?”

“Long practice, I think,” Fa’an returned dryly. “You know that I served in Judicial with my grand-Master, Orna kel Ta, yes?”

Siri nodded. “Yeah. Master Micah used to talk about you guys a lot, when he wasn’t teaching us to beat the spit out of each other.”

“I dreamed that Master Orna spoke to me, while we stood on the very ship that took her life…and almost mine as well, to be honest.” Fa’an’s eyes took on the faraway cast that a lot of the older Masters tended to get when the mysticism was in high gear. “She told me that while she knew and understood that Judicial was my first, best love, it was time to apply the skills I had learned in their service to the matter of the Sith.”

“I guess that does warrant the portent-of-doom tone,” Siri said, wincing in sympathy.

Fa’an nodded. “It is generally impolite to ignore the entreaty of the teacher who saved your life.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

By the time Dooku’s Punworcca sloop arrived, night had fallen. The sky had opened up as the sun had set, pouring rain down on anyone foolish enough to remain outdoors.

Qui-Gon watched the ship settle onto the landing platform, feeling cold water trickle down inside his collar. He could have waited indoors, but there were times when he preferred the rain, feeling it as a distant cousin to the gentle current of the River of Light.

Dooku strode down the ramp, cloaked and hooded in deference to the weather. It was long years of practice and familiarity that enabled Qui-Gon to read his Master. Dooku hid it well, but there was a great deal of trepidation in his gaze.

His first word to Qui-Gon would have betrayed his true feelings, regardless. “Komari?” Dooku asked, ignoring the downpour that soaked his cloak. His shields were at low ebb, a deliberate act to reveal that he was no more shadowed than he had been during their last meeting.

“Not here,” Qui-Gon replied, both answer and instruction. Dooku nodded and followed Qui-Gon away from the port. Tyrena’s streets were quiet, with most of the tourist crowds packed into the casinos to avoid the weather.

After a few minutes of mutual silence, Dooku spoke, but not to resume his questions about Komari Vosa. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you as well, Master.”

Dooku made an amused sound, perhaps at the formality of Qui-Gon’s response. “Your control is slipping, Padawan.”

Qui-Gon eyed Dooku from the corner of his eye. “What makes you think so?”

Dooku offered Qui-Gon one of his rare smiles. “I survived your teenage years, Qui-Gon. Every time you were truly upset, our lives became very, very damp.”

Qui-Gon halted his steps, checked himself, and realized Dooku was correct. “Sith dammit,” he grumbled under his breath. That was a lapse in his abilities that he had not suffered in many years—though he suspected he’d slipped at least once during his and Obi-Wan’s initial courtship. There had been an abnormal number of thunderstorms on Coruscant that year.

Regardless, Qui-Gon could not stop the rain pouring down on Tyrena. Now that he’d inadvertently set the weather patterns in motion, there was nothing to do but let the clouds empty themselves.

“You must have indeed been shocked by Komari’s continued existence,” Dooku murmured as they resumed their walk.

“Shock alone did not cause it, Master,” Qui-Gon replied, and resisted the urge to sigh. “Once again, it’s been an interesting month. Year. Six years—hell.” He shook his head and pressed his hand to his forehead. His skin was rain-slick and cool, a counter against the headache that had been trying to form all afternoon.

Dooku didn’t seem surprised. “Tell me.”

“The Corellian Security Force is allowing the Jedi to lead the interview of our mystery cultist, and were gracious enough to wait until you arrived. This man is skilled at keeping his thoughts to himself. It’s amazing he slipped enough to allow us to see Komari’s face; I almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair has gone entirely white,” Qui-Gon explained when Dooku frowned. “She looks well enough otherwise, if a bit…wild.”

“A succinct qualifier, if she is indeed leading the Bando Gora,” Dooku said, troubled. “While I always said that Komari had great potential, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“There’s more to the situation than that,” Qui-Gon said. “I know you researched the means and methods of the Sith for many years. Did you ever find a reference to a toxin called A Drop of Fire?”

Dooku’s eyes widened. “That is…very specific of you. Yes, I know of it. It was an old tool of the competing Sith Lords, from a time when the Sith still had an empire to their name. It’s been long extinct, but records survive, speaking of how it was used.”

 _Well, at least I have much less to explain than I feared,_ Qui-Gon thought, though the depth of Dooku’s knowledge still gave him a moment’s discomfort. “Jenna Zan Arbor figured out how to recreate it.”

This time it was Dooku who stopped walking in open-mouthed shock. “By the Force, Qui-Gon. That was something that did _not_ need to be rediscovered!”

“Believe me, we are very much aware of that,” Qui-Gon said, turning to face the older man. “She gave my Lifemate a dose strong enough for twenty people.”

There were many who considered Qui-Gon’s Master to be a hard man, and that was true. They also mistakenly believed that he was without emotion, which was not true at all. “By all the gods,” Dooku whispered. “I’m so sorry. Is he—”

“Dead? No.” Qui-Gon shook his head. “We were both fortunate in that Obi-Wan knew how to counter Fire.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “There is only one counter for Fire, Padawan.”

Qui-Gon managed a half-hearted smile. “I told you the situation was complicated.”

“Well.” Dooku held out his arm, a gesture for Qui-Gon to precede him. “We should hurry along, then.”

“We should, yes,” Qui-Gon agreed, not sure if he was relieved or baffled at the lack of further inquiry.

In only a few minutes, the local CorSec precinct that Sheffa Solo commanded was in sight. Inside, a lone Bando Gora survivor waited in his prison cell, holding the only clues as to his long-missing sister Padawan’s fate.

“The specific nature of your threat on Naboo makes more sense, now,” Dooku said, after a long, uncomfortable silence. “I have pondered your words often since that day. You did not warn me against Falling, or against becoming a Sith, but against joining Sidious in particular.”

“There is a difference between idle curiosity, Darkness, and unequivocal _evil_ , Dooku. Sidious is most certainly the latter,” Qui-Gon replied. “Circumstances then were not what they are now, but I still stand by what I said.”

“Fair enough.” Dooku inclined his head. “And your Lifebonded’s intriguing state?”

“Complicated is not a descriptive enough term. More like elaborately convoluted.” Qui-Gon managed a short, humorless chuckle.

“Is it tied to Obi-Wan’s early Knighting?”

Qui-Gon nodded. He wasn’t surprised by the guess—it wasn’t a hard logical jump, not if you had more than three pieces of the puzzle. “Many things are—wait.” He held up his hand. They were just a few meters from the doors, and the CorSec guard that should have been manning the lobby entrance was absent.

“Trouble?” Dooku asked.

“I don’t—” Qui-Gon started to say, and then he realized the discordant feel to the Force was not the remnants of his accidental weather-shift, but something much more dire. “Damn,” he whispered.

They bolted for the door, Qui-Gon almost catching his shoulder in the frame as the automatic sensors didn’t open the entry fast enough. They ran down the hall, only to stop short when they found CorSec already gathered.

There were fifteen officers present amid the sea of desks, most of them huddled together in a single group and looking shell-shocked. No one seemed to be injured, but if anything, that discordant, jangling feeling intensified.

“What the hell happened?” Qui-Gon asked.

Sheffa Solo grimaced at the sight of him. “We don’t have a prisoner anymore, that’s what.”

“What?”

 _“How?”_ Dooku demanded, giving Qui-Gon a sharp glance that saw far too much.

The youngest officer, Tybian, was a bit more forthcoming. “The crazy bastard ripped his own throat out,” he said, and uttered a laugh that was a terrible reflection of the shocked panic in his eyes.

“We couldn’t get to him in time,” Solo said, directing another officer to sit down with Tybian. “We had all of the lock cycles engaged, and by the time we realized what was happening and started opening the doors…”

“He bled out,” Qui-Gon finished. He was struggling with a feeling of intense disappointment, and knew he wasn’t the only one. “Where is my partner?” Venge had remained with the CorSec group, standing watch in case the Bando Gora’s erstwhile allies attempted a jailbreak. The Padawans had elected to wait back at the _Fading Flower_ —a fortunate decision, given what he’d just walked into.

“He’s still in the cell, the last one down from the entrance. Your partner tried to…” Solo rubbed her mouth with her hand. “He tried to—to heal the Bando Gora? I think?”

“You think,” Qui-Gon repeated, disconcerted by her lack of certainty.

Sheffa looked queasy. “It didn’t go very well. You should go collect him. We’ll clean up the rest of the mess, but…”

Solo led them to the primary entrance to the cell block, which was standing open. “The Bando Gora was our only inmate, so you won’t need an escort inside. The remaining security doors are unlocked.”

When they were almost to the cell, Dooku spoke. “I apologize. I erred in my assumption.”

“I would be lying if I hadn’t considered it a possibility,” Qui-Gon replied, feeling grim. Venge’s temper was atrocious even on good days, and the Bando Gora had tried to kill all four of them. For what, or why, Qui-Gon still had no idea. Komari Vosa had chosen a very baffling method of announcing her continued existence.

The drab duracrete of the cell was thrown into stark relief by the bright red blood that had spilled from the Bando Gora. The mess spread out across the ground, and was still plinking steadily down the floor drain in the middle of the room.

The cultist was lying on his back on the left side of the cell, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes. Qui-Gon looked long enough to see the damage—Tybian had been literal in his meaning—before he turned his attention to his Lifemate.

Venge was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the cell, in the corner farthest from the door. His hands were red with the Bando Gora’s blood. He didn’t react to their presence, nor did his stare waver from the dead man.

This was not watchfulness, or patient waiting. He was far too pale, his eyes shock-wide.

“What is this?” Dooku asked. His voice was fainter than Qui-Gon was used to hearing. He didn’t know if it was in response to the amber glow of Venge’s eyes, or the ghastly mess they were faced with.

Qui-Gon was surprised when Venge answered them. “Very effective suicide.” He sounded normal, but Venge still had not lifted his gaze from the corpse.

Qui-Gon noticed that the dark brown of Venge’s shirt was darker still, wet from wrist to elbow. “Solo mentioned that you tried to undo the damage.”

“Did she?” Venge didn’t move. “I suppose you could call it that. He was already dead by the time the final lock released.”

Qui-Gon felt his blood turn to ice as he understood, all at once, what Venge must have done. He felt frozen in place, short of breath—

He couldn’t panic, couldn’t give vent to his own dread. Venge’s own horror was a palpable creature, filling the confines of the cell.

_Close. It was…very close._

Qui-Gon forced his legs to move, to cross the cell, to kneel down in front of Venge. “Obi-Wan, tell me what happened.”

Venge blinked, slowly refocusing his gaze on Qui-Gon. “I…you—you wanted to find her. Komari. He was…I grabbed him, before he could cross the gray place.”

Qui-Gon’s mouth went dry. “And?”

“I just…I shoved him back in.” Venge tilted his head, but the shock-blank look did not leave his face. “He had no…” Venge gestured towards his own throat. “He could not speak. Or breathe.” Venge hesitated, struggling with his words. “It’s…not like I thought it would be.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Venge looked at his reddened fingers and then dropped his hands. “You don’t just pull someone back from that place. You have to…you’re the conduit for it. You _feel_ them. I could feel emotions, see glimpses of his memories—all the answers to the questions we had for him, but it was too late because he was already—” Venge bit back the words with a gasp. “He was already—”

Qui-Gon touched Venge’s face, cradling his face with his palms, and the skin beneath his hands was like ice. The touch helped him to realize what needed to be said, no matter his dread at speaking the words. “Did you torture him?” he asked in a low voice.

Venge’s eyes widened as the question sank in. “N— _no_ ,” he stuttered. “No, no. Not—not that, no—”

Qui-Gon couldn’t help a relieved sigh. “Then it’s done with. There are worse things that could have happened.”

Venge gave him a look of complete disbelief. “Worse?” he asked, his voice cracking midway through the word.

“Well.” Qui-Gon stared into his partner’s eyes. “Are you planning to do that again?”

Venge jerked back from Qui-Gon’s touch. “No!” he shouted, an exclamation that reverberated in the Force.

“All right, then,” Qui-Gon kept his voice even. “We should go.”

Venge’s brow furrowed. “Go?”

Qui-Gon used his fingertips to smooth out the angry, baffled expression. “Yes. We should get you cleaned up, and I am thinking that the shielding of the suite would not be amiss.”

“The hotel.” Venge closed his eyes. “That would be…acceptable.”

Venge allowed Qui-Gon to help him to his feet. His knees buckled; Qui-Gon caught him and held his breath as intense, jangling discord enveloped them like a cloud. Only when Venge stepped back did the feeling ease.

“Master Kenobi.”

Venge turned his head, a slow, stiff movement, to regard Dooku with too-wide, unblinking eyes. “No,” he said. Qui-Gon knew exactly what his mate was refuting, and it made his heart clench. “What do you want, Dooku?”

“I would—I know this will seem unkind, but I would consider it worth this misfortune if…” Dooku hesitated. “Where is she?”

Muscles in Venge’s jaw clenched and jumped. “You care for her. You really do.”

Dooku allowed his concern to show, both in his gaze and his Force-presence. “Of course I do. She was—is—my Padawan.”

“Then…I am sorry. He did not know.” Venge’s eyes strayed to the corpse. “They are so smart, your Padawans. If you did anything right, it was that.”

Dooku seemed taken aback. “I…see. What is it that she’s done?”

“She wiped their memories. Komari took away knowledge of their home when these Bando Gora volunteered to come here.”

 _Force, Komari, what has happened to you?_ Qui-Gon wondered. “They volunteered for this?”

He could almost feel the shift, like an atmospheric pressure storm, when Venge said, “They loved her. All she had to do was ask it of them, and it was done.”

It finally struck Qui-Gon, what was so odd about the Bando Gora’s death. There had been no final impression of fear, terror, physical agony—nothing Qui-Gon would expect from a man who had not only suicided, but had been temporarily returned to his own unviable corpse. Buried beneath the sourness of what Venge had done, there had been…

_Because for you, for that, I would do anything you asked of me._

Qui-Gon found himself meeting Venge’s eyes, and saw perfect understanding there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I did not take your words quite as seriously as I should have.”

Venge scowled at him. “That was stupid,” he said, and stalked past Dooku to exit the cell.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The return trip to the hotel was made in silence. Greene was on duty; he took one look at their grim faces, noted the blood on Venge’s hands, and his welcoming smile wilted away.

Upstairs, Anakin was waiting to meet them. “Dead cultist?”

“Unfortunately,” Qui-Gon answered, while Rillian gave Dooku a polite, albeit stilted, greeting.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Anakin muttered, and then shoved a bundle of clothing into Venge’s hands. Venge automatically accepted the burden, but did not seem to be aware of what he was doing. “It’s just so damned typical.”

“Sometimes it does indeed feel that way,” Qui-Gon said, and glanced over at his Master. “Are you staying?”

Dooku was eying the faded furnishings with an air of distaste. “I’ve been spoiled by taking on my inheritance,” he said. “But I will remain, if it is not an inconvenience. It was near midnight on Truuine when you contacted me.”

“No, that’s fine,” Anakin managed to say with a bright smile. _It’ll just be weird._

 _Weird how?_ Qui-Gon asked, busy steering his unprotesting Lifemate up the stairs.

_We overnighted in a cell together—no, you know what? Don’t ask. It was embarrassing!_

“You’re welcome to stay, Master. I’ll be back down in a few moments,” Qui-Gon assured Dooku, when he looked down to find that the older man did not seem convinced by Anakin’s enthusiasm. Qui-Gon understood the Padawans’ reserve, given what they could recall about Darth Tyrannus, but this was not _then_. Qui-Gon wanted to keep the man as an ally if was possible.

Inside the ’fresher, it took little more than a nudge to get Venge seated on the bench beside the sink. Qui-Gon debated for a moment before removing the bundle Anakin had put into Venge’s hands, setting it aside. At the very least, he could remove his mate’s bloodstained clothing.

He had managed the third button of five when Venge reached up and gripped Qui-Gon’s hands, stilling his movements. “I don’t want to be him.” It was the first time Venge had spoken since leaving the precinct.

“You’re not,” Qui-Gon replied, no matter that his heart had begun pounding at the quiet, desperate-sounding words. _You won’t be._

Venge shook his head. “Qui-Gon, I did that without thought. None. It wasn’t until it was over, and he was gasping for breath, that I—you didn’t even ask it of me. I just knew that you wanted it, and it was done.” Venge lifted his head and looked at Qui-Gon, bleak and empty-eyed. “Promise me. If you ever believe that there is _any_ chance of me becoming like Sidious, promise me, don’t let me—”

“Shut up,” Qui-Gon ordered in a gruff voice, wrapping his arms around Venge and pulling the smaller man in close. Venge was vibrating within his own skin, a fine trembling that shook his entire body. “You won’t be, dammit.”

After long, tense minutes, the trembling began to ease. Qui-Gon could almost feel Venge backing away from that final, long drop. “Better?”

“A bit.” Venge leaned back and gave Qui-Gon a wry smile, though it did not quite match the fiery emotional storm in his eyes. “This time, listen to me. I do not want to be parted from you…but please, get the fuck away from me before I do something I cannot take back.”

“Right now?” Qui-Gon asked, feeling ice twist in his gut. Their time together was not turning out like he’d hoped: not two days ago, two months ago, or even two years ago.

“No. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” Venge touched Qui-Gon’s cheek with his reddened fingertips. “As I said—I do not want you to go.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Water often grounded him when little else did, but even after the shower, a strong sense of dislocation would not fade. He dressed in clothes that did not reek of imprisonment or blood while listening to the flow of water from the ‘fresher as Qui-Gon took his own turn to bathe.

Venge held out his hand, and there was no tremor, no shake, no staining—nothing to reveal the evening’s loss of control. Not even Fire was bothering him, placated by the energy spent on his futile effort to revive the Bando Gora.

Venge’s gaze fell on the dark shape nesting in the center of the suite’s bed. “Where did you come from?”

Teya blinked at him and thrashed his tail. Then he turned his face away and proceeded to ignore Venge entirely.

“He’s angry at you,” Qui-Gon said, emerging from the ’fresher. He was dressed in loose clothing, in deference to the late hour, with his hair unbound. The ends were still wet; water drops formed, rounded, and then fell, glittering and catching the light before disappearing into the thick carpet.

Venge shook his head, a sharp, jarring motion, as he fought for clarity. That was the wrong kind of focus, one that would be too easy to lose himself in.

“The Padawans must have brought him along…or perhaps he brought himself along. Your feline has been making his own decisions about where he goes, of late.” Qui-Gon reached down and stroked Teya’s head with two fingers. Fur parted and reformed with each pass, individual black threads rejoining—

 _Fuck._ He did not like this feeling of disassociation.  It was worse than the damned sedatives.

“Is something wrong?” Qui-Gon asked. There was concern shining in his deep blue eyes, something Venge was surprised to see. Tonight had been…unsettling, at the very least, and still his Lifemate was standing by his side, supporting him—sometimes literally.

“I have been having strange dreams, of late.”

Qui-Gon noticed water drip from his hair, frowned, and went to fetch another towel. “You sound uncertain,” he said from the other room.

“I want them to be dreams,” Venge clarified. “If they are not dreams…then I must either question my sanity, or my ability to discern safe objects from dangerous ones.”

“Perhaps both,” Qui-Gon said. He walked back out with a smile on his face and a towel in his hands, briskly removing the remaining moisture from the ends of his hair.

“Perhaps,” Venge agreed. He was captured again, studying his mate’s hands as they flexed around cloth, observing line and form.

If Qui-Gon noticed where his attention had wandered, he gave no sign. “What makes you question them?”

“One of the Shadow teams brought me an artifact recovered from Naboo,” Venge said, and was rather ridiculously disappointed when Qui-Gon put the towel in the laundry hamper. “They could not find anything special about it, and after examining it, neither did I. It was, for all intents and purposes, a carved black stone with no special properties whatsoever. Since then, however, my dreams have been strange.”

“Strange how?”

Venge thought about it. There were, at this point, many ways he could answer that question. “Strange, as in…I never want to see your eyes the color mine are right now.”

“Ah.” Qui-Gon took a step towards him, close enough to touch. “Prophetic?”

Venge blinked. “They fucking well better not be. Only one of us is allowed to be psychotic, thank you very much.”

“I still say it is not necessary to assign yourself this role,” Qui-Gon replied. His smile was warm, inviting…and more than a little bit distracting. “Do you think there is reason to be concerned?”

He couldn’t handle that expression right now. “Not so far.” _Not yet._

Venge took a breath, let it out, and made a decision that would be safest for them both. “I am going to have a drink.”

“Is that a wise idea?” There was no judgment in Qui-Gon’s question, but it still made Venge want to grind his teeth.

“I am out of the mood stabilizers, and I do not want to kill your idiot Master. I think it is a _grand_ idea.”

Downstairs, Venge found the bottle he’d purchased in the market district already uncorked and waiting. “You are my favorite,” he told Anakin, who grinned in response.

[I’m the one who found the glasses,] Rillian said with an amused huff. She came out of the suite’s tiny kitchen bearing a careful armload of glassware. [I think they’re crystal. They’re too heavy for glass, and the texture’s wrong.]

Dooku plucked two of the five glasses from Rillian’s arms. “You are not wrong, Padawan. They are of extremely good quality, if old.”

Venge didn’t care what the glasses were made of, or how old they were, as long as the vessels didn’t leak expensive brandy. “You are also my favorite,” he said to Rillian, giving her a quick, tight smile.

[I know,] Rillian replied, pleased.

“Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon gave the bottle a dubious look. “Normally I would refuse, but after what this day has brought? Please.”

“Might I join you?” Dooku asked. “Padawan Raallandirr was kind enough to bring glassware for us all.”

Venge eyed Dooku. The other man’s hair and beard had not yet gone completely silver; the remaining threads of black helped keep Venge’s focus from dwelling upon the joys of beheading an annoying, irritating Sith Apprentice. Still, he could not help feeling the familiar snap-spike of his temper. “Does imbibing make your company more tolerable?”

Irritatingly enough, Dooku refused to take offense. “I have been told that it does.”

Venge poured three glasses full, then added a finger’s width to the fourth, when Anakin shrugged in response to his wordless query. Rillian had already snatched back the fifth glass to fill with water.

“Aren’t you a bit young for that, Padawan Skywalker?” Dooku was smiling at Anakin in a way that made Venge’s nerves shriek in protest. It was far too close to Tyrannus’s default expression when facing them in battle.

“Not really, no,” Anakin replied, but he still grimaced after his first swallow. Hard liquor never had agreed with his Padawan.

The first glass of brandy went down like acid in his throat. The second was easier; the third felt like silk. Venge put the empty glass down on the table and waited for his system to adjust to the sheer amount of alcohol he’d just forced into it.

“Y’know, I could have sworn I just heard a shipload of connoisseurs wailing in anguish from what you just did to that brandy,” Anakin said.

“It was a worthwhile expenditure.” Venge felt some of the disassociation fade, but Fire still did not flare up to take its place. He hadn’t been certain it would work, but it seemed alcohol’s stance as a chemical depressant was going to favor him this evening. It was a more enjoyable option than Abella’s sedative cocktails.

“I know that my presence is the reason for your thirst, but that does seem excessive,” Dooku said, once he had taken a first, savoring sip of the brandy.

There it was; that was why he’d stepped away from any hint of intimacy with Qui-Gon when the chance, however slight, had been offered. Blood sang and senses spread and feelings curled tight—Venge did not want comfort, but _prey_.

“Of course it is,” Venge said, and poured a fourth glass without touching the bottle. “You are not staying out of concern for the late hour. You are here because you have questions.” He was not surprised that his voice came out in something approaching a silken purr.

Perhaps Qui-Gon’s cat analogy was not inaccurate.

Dooku nodded in response, granting him a smile that was almost an echo of Venge’s own predatory thoughts. There was a challenge in his gaze; Dooku did not believe Venge would be willing to subject himself to a verbal dance.

Venge rested his hand on the tabletop, considering. He knew that Qui-Gon had told Dooku only of Fire, but Dooku was no fool. He would have put the clues together and arrived at the singular, inescapable conclusion.

His mate still knew him best. “Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon began to say, a warning tone in his voice.

“It’s all right, Padawan.” Dooku politely brushed off Qui-Gon’s concern. He stepped away from the small table in the kitchenette, settling down onto a leather armchair in the suite’s central receiving area. “He’s right. I do have questions. I just did not think I would be granted the opportunity to ask them.”

 _Oh, boy_ , Rillian muttered, as Anakin skirted the room to take a spectator’s seat on the raised stone hearth in front of the gas-fed fireplace. She dithered for a moment, and then went to join him. Venge waited until both Padawans were seated before he activated the system with a thought. The gas lit with an electric snap that caused Anakin to jump and then glare at him.

_Obi-Wan._

Venge turned his head to smile at Qui-Gon, who did not look pleased. _What?_

Qui-Gon seemed to be struggling for the right words. _I’m not going to stop you from doing this. You are both adults and know how to act accordingly. Just…try not to do any irreparable damage_.

Venge’s smile grew wider. It was rather gratifying that Qui-Gon knew just who he should be worried about. By the time he seated himself on the settee across from Dooku, Venge felt like a cat watching an injured bird flutter and hop in a desperate attempt to flee. “Ask.”

If Dooku was aware of Venge’s perspective, he gave no outward sign. He was sitting in elegant repose, the crystal tumbler supported casually by the spread fingers of his left hand.

“What is your name?”

It was an excellent first question. There were beings in this room who were not comfortable hearing Venge refer to himself, and after this, Dooku would know it. “Why do you want to know?” Venge asked instead, while Qui-Gon sat down on a chair near the Padawans, a wary, watchful expression on his face.

Dooku’s stare had shifted from informal to searching, a frank appraisal that he did not bother to disguise. “I’m sure that Qui-Gon has told you that the Sith have long been the focus of my research. Names carry weight, and any Sith who chooses to take a new name often gives away unexpected information about themselves in the process.”

“Ah.” Venge leaned back in his seat. _Well-played,_ he thought. “My name…is Venge,” he said, his gaze locked on Dooku’s eyes. “But I did not choose it.”

“A variation on vengeance. Interesting,” Dooku murmured, and then he said, “There was once another Sith with a similar name, called Vengean.”

“I assure you, we’re not related,” Venge drawled.

“If you did not choose the name, then who gave it to you?”

Venge narrowed his eyes. That question was less intelligent than he’d hoped for, as the answer was quite obvious. “Sidious.”

Dooku gave a slight nod, conceding the unnecessary nature of his query. “So, Palpatine—Sidious, as you say—named you for the act of violent revenge. Why would he make such a choice? More accurately, when would this have happened?”

Venge scowled. “That’s two questions.”

Dooku raised an eyebrow. “I only get one?”

“I’ll answer one of those, but not both,” Venge said. “Choose which is the most important to your quest for knowledge.”

Dooku was regarding him, steady in his role as consummate diplomat. “Then I shall ask an answer for the first.”

Venge tilted his head, but did not break eye contact. “I was doing my absolute best to kill him, without regard for my life or my place in the Force. Sidious has a perverse admiration of such things.”

“That seems an extreme reaction for a man who has been an avowed Jedi all his life,” Dooku said.

Venge could feel part of Fire awaken at that, anger kindled by the faint air of assumption in the other man’s voice. “Sidious took away almost everything I ever cared for. To say that I hated him would be an understatement.”

Even that wasn’t quite accurate. His hatred was not a past thing, but an active, present, constant emotion. The part of himself that was Jedi hadn’t wished to dwell on it—maybe even could not, given the nature of the block—but Venge hated Sidious with almost every fiber of his being.

Dooku made a point of glancing over at their silent observers. Rillian looked worried; Anakin’s expression was intense. Qui-Gon’s wariness had faded into grim resignation. “And yet, here sit the three people whom I believe you care for the most.”

“Yes. Here they sit. How could such a thing be possible?” Venge asked, and while the question was disparaging, he managed to keep it from being snide.

Dooku rested his glass on the arm of his chair and leaned back. There was a delighted gleam in his eyes. “How old are you?”

Venge couldn’t help but smile. He’d often suspected that Dooku had done more than a little discreet digging into his early Knighting, and the missions that had preceded and followed the event. “What makes you think I am anything other than what my Temple records suggest?”

“No Knight, no matter how exceptional, is ever asked to join the Jedi Council at the age of eighteen Standard,” Dooku countered.

“It was not a serious request.”

“Was it not?” Dooku smiled. “While not a formal invitation, Micah Giett readily admitted that he would have ceded his chair to you if you had said yes.”

 _I’ll kill him,_ Qui-Gon grumbled, unimpressed with Micah’s lack of subtlety.

“And then, when asked for a second time four years later, you agreed to a permanent seat,” Dooku continued.

Venge knew when he was being baited. “It isn’t a permanent seat. We cycled the permanent seat’s status to Master Gallia.”

“Still. To be asked once so early is one thing; to be asked again before your first Padawan’s apprenticeship is complete is quite another.” Dooku was beginning to look smug, an expression that Venge detested. “There are other sorts of tales in the old Sith lore, you know.”

“Oh?” Venge feigned boredom. He was not about to go chasing after such poorly laid hints.

Dooku granted him the information before the silence could stretch too long. “There was sometimes mention of a rare ability. A select few of the ancient Sith Lords were said to have been able to send their consciousness backwards or forward in time. It was a temporary thing, not meant to be permanent, but afforded these few Sith a unique perspective. Not a lot of credence is given to such stories, but nevertheless, they were recorded.”

 _You—you don’t think that Sidious could have…you know. Could he?_ Anakin ventured. He’d gone pale, and his mouth was clenched in a thin, stressed line.

 _What, that Sidious grabbed yours and Master Obi-Wan’s consciousnesses after you tossed him down the reactor shaft on the Death Star?_ Rillian snorted. _That seems really counterproductive._

Venge glanced at Qui-Gon. _She is right. It does seem counterproductive._ Qui-Gon gave him a faint nod of agreement.

Venge turned his attention back to Dooku. Information freely shared deserved a reward, no matter how pointless. “Sixty-four.”

Dooku’s chin came up; he reached for his glass and took a large swallow. “That is older than I’d expected. You share in this ability, then?”

Venge opened his mouth to say no and then closed it again. He was not actually certain of that. Of all his talents, it was not one he had ever considered attempting. “I did not…cause this. The reason for my presence is yet unknown, other than the obvious fact that it happened.” The notion of temporary shifts was also disturbing, and something he did _not_ want to dwell upon.

An empathic Jedi might have expressed sympathy, recognizing the jarring shift for what it had been—or perhaps such a Jedi would voice their concerns, given the flow of the conversation so far.

Dooku had not been of empathic bent even when he still called himself a Jedi, and thus, jumped straight back to the matter of satisfying his curiosity. “For you to have known the sole counter to what A Drop of Fire can do, you must have spent time under Sidious’s tutelage. If you desired to kill him, as you say, then why volunteer for such a thing?”

“Volunteer,” Venge repeated, amused. “That is an interesting term to choose, though I suppose it will do well enough.” He paused, considering whether or not to answer the question. It was not information that was secret; not from the Jedi, nor from Sidious. “I subjected myself to Sidious’s idea of tutelage in a vain attempt to mitigate damage that had already been wrought.”

“And yet, you did well enough to earn a name,” Dooku said in a musing voice. “Tell me, what was your Sacrifice?”

Venge went still. It felt like the room continued to move onward with the spin of the planet, while he remained in place.

The very first thing he heard was his own voice, shouting, _You were the Chosen One!_

The air left Venge’s lungs in a rush that felt like a sudden kick to the breast. His blood turned to acid and ice in his veins, and when air rushed past his lips, it emerged in a white plume of burgeoning frost.

_I HATE YOU!_

Ice spread outward in a snapping, crackling wave. It coated the settee and the floor, running up in speedy white lines until it had spider-webbed the front end of Dooku’s chair.

“How,” and Venge didn’t even recognize the sound of his own voice, it was so choked with rage, “do you know about that?”

The water droplets on Dooku’s glass turned to ice, just before the vessel cracked with a loud _pop._ Brandy started to ooze through fiber-thin fractures. Dooku was trying hard not to appear unnerved, but it showed in the way liquid slopped out of the damaged glass when he hurriedly set it upon the table next to his chair.

“What is this?” Qui-Gon ran his finger along another runner of ice that had approached the stone hearth, breaching the rocks before it melted in the face of the heat put forth by warm bodies and lit fire. He turned his gaze back to Venge, his face writ with concern and sorrow.

 _This is who I am. This is what is left when everything burns, and all that’s left to do is watch the ash fall from the sky._ Venge looked down at his clenched fists. Even his fingernails were tipped with frost. This was not Fire, but _cold_.

“It is nothing,” Venge said, which was true.

Dooku pulled his attention away from the spreading ice, pretending to ignore it even after crystals formed and whitened on his sleeves. “The records regarding the Sacrifice of the Innocent are few and very far between. Not even Sidious would confess it to be a part of his training.”

 _You were my brother, Anakin! I_ loved _you!_

Venge couldn’t help it; his gaze flickered over to Anakin. Though he quickly averted his eyes, the answer to Dooku’s question was given.

“But—no!” Anakin cried, standing up and staring at him in shock and dismay. “That wasn’t—that was _him!_ ”

“How very interesting,” Dooku said, an echo of too many instances of Darkness and war.

Fire arose, singing with intense pleasure when Venge let it burn, true and bright and so much more honest than this disingenuous fucking dialogue. If they were going to put aside the dance and let it become war, then Venge had no qualms about making his opinions known.

“Interesting,” Venge hissed in mocking rebuttal. “You poke and prod at false holocrons. You read ancient, crumbling scrolls. You have conversed with one of the most powerful Sith to ever exist, and yet you still have _no idea_ what it is that you are doing.”

It seemed strange that a man with black eyes could react in a way that made them seem darker still. “Enlighten me,” Dooku demanded, stern and forbidding.

The effort was laughable. Whether it was Dooku or Tyrannus he faced, Venge was frightened of neither. “You do not have the strength or the mental fortitude to resist the Dark Side. If you carry on like this, it will destroy you.”

Dooku was incensed. Venge could see it in the flash of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. “You assume—”

“I do no such thing.” Venge smiled, an expression that he knew was not kind at all. “It all comes down to Galidraan.”

“Galidraan?” Dooku leaned back, startled by what must have been an unexpected name to hear. “That was many years ago, and has no bearing on my actions now.”

“Does it not?” The pendulum had swung; he knew that his focus, his great intensity, was burning in his eyes as he leaned forward. The bird was fluttering again. “Nearly three hundred men and women died that day. Three hundred people. Three hundred _lives._ I have read every single scrap of those mission reports, witnessed the recordings made of you and your team’s depositions before Senate and Council. Every time you spoke of Galidraan, you blamed others for what happened there—the Republic for sending you, the Death Watch and Tor Vizsla for their lies, the governor’s trickery. You spoke of them like their actions absolve you of your own.

“No matter what you were told, it was your team. It was _your_ decision, and thus your _duty_ to discern fact from fiction before taking action. You regret the True Mandalorians’ massacre on Galidraan, but you have yet to actually accept responsibility for making the choice that led directly to their deaths. Not once have you had the courage to admit your own culpability.”

Venge leaned back, his head lowered, and he stared at Dooku through the fall of his hair. “That is why the Dark Side will eat you alive.”

There it was—the flare of nostril, eyes glimmering with barely suppressed rage. “And what have you done that makes you so capable of judging me?” Dooku asked in a low, dangerous rumble.

Venge realized that his heart was pounding with the effort of keeping himself from striking out. When he spoke, his voice was a steady, cold reflection of the ice. “I grievously wounded my best friend—my _brother_ —and left him to burn to death. Every detail of that day is branded into my heart. Every year on that same day, I dream of it as if it is happening anew—and I have been dreaming of that moment for a _very long time now._ ”

Venge’s eyes flickered over Dooku, dismissive. “You are not capable of living with something like that on your conscience.”

His words had the intended effect. Dooku stood, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he took his leave without a word. If the door to the downstairs bedroom could have been slammed, Venge thought it would be rattling inside its frame.

Qui-Gon sighed heavily. “At least he didn’t leave us entirely.”

[I thought we were going to have to keep them from stabbing each other,] Rillian blurted.

“It was _him_ ,” Anakin repeated in a small voice.

Venge turned to look at his Padawan. It was the sight of Anakin, hunched and miserable, that finally melted the ice in the room. The heartbreak on Anakin’s face was too close of an echo to his own bitter regret.

Venge got up from the settee and knelt down in front of his Padawan. “Do you really think that matters?”

“Of course it does!” Anakin retorted, hot tears spilling from his eyes. “It was Vader that you were stopping when you fought on Mustafar!”

“Padawan.” Mindful of his icy fingertips, Venge placed the palm of his hand against the back of Anakin’s neck and pulled his Padawan forward until their foreheads were just touching.

“Anakin. You were there, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I am supposed to actually *tell* people when I do insane things like join Tumblr.
> 
> So, if you drank the Tumblr Kool-Aid too, I'm here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/deadcatwithaflamethrower


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